cocaine for breakfast
by novocainefever
Summary: Four times the people of Sherlock's life collided with his addiction, and one time John didn't have to.


**TV show: Sherlock BBC**

**Pairing: Sherlock/John, although it's generally about Sherlock ft other characthers of the show**

**Warnings; Drug usage and addiction although nothing particular explicit. M/M, obviously, but can be seen as friendship too since it doesn't really hint at a romantic relationship.**

**Summary; it focuses on Sherlock's life before John, and it follows the theme of his drug abuse. Four times the people of Sherlock's life collided with his addiction, and one time John didn't have to. **

**oo1.**

Sherlock scrunches his face up in bitter disappointment: even without the extra set of high-heeled feet going click-click-click in a matching rhythm behind the sound of those all-too familiar, heavy footsteps in the corridor outside, he'd still know.

A surprise visit doesn't really count as it when one can determine quite easily the arrival of one's older brother by factors such as the weather, the fifth and to this date the hardest day of said brother's new low starch diet, and lastly and perhaps most obviously: the vibration of one's cell phone announcing at least sixteen missed calls (he stops keeping track after that, really) from a blocked caller ID. Mycroft. Of course.

(Or rather, his new assistant, no doubt the one currently accompanying Mycroft to Sherlock's dorm. Blocked caller ID can only mean three things, after all, seeing as there are probably a total of maximum nine people with access to Sherlock's phone number. Mummy's away in Budapest for business, the possibilities of a telemarketer calling that many times in a row is ridiculously low and so Sherlock's only left with one conclusion: Mycrofts intentions are to stick his nose (potato-shaped, too big and entirely unflattering for his face - that notion along with the consequences of sleep apnea it has brought him makes Sherlock wonder what he needs it for anyway) in business that most definitely isn't his. Again.)

"Oh, brother", Mycroft sing-songs mockingly. "Be a dear and open the door. And really, Sherlock, room number thirteen? Isn't that a bit melo-dramatic, even for you?"

"Go away", Sherlock growls. Unfortunately, his voice is unused and hoarse and doesn't sound too threatening at all. There's dried saliva on the left side of his mouth and he's covered in a thin sheet of sweat, curls plastered to his slick forehead. He hasn't had a shower in roughly two days and four hours, he hasn't eaten for at least as long. For some reason, he doesn't feel hungry at all.

"Anthea, if you please", Mycroft's smooth voice comes, and seconds later, an ear-shattering bang. Sherlock wants to strange his brother with his bare hands. He feels sick. (Heart rate steadily increasing, blood pressure above normal, nausea will reach him full-force in about seventeen minutes).

"Hm", Mycroft says, tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth as if not bothering to properly tut because of the predictableness of it all as he steps in. Sherlock hates it. "Well, lucky for you I'm not planning on telling Mummy", he continues without missing a beat, unimpressed left eyebrow still raised. The new assistant - Anthea - sweeps a perfectly dismissive gaze across the small dorm room, taking in the mess of cut-out news articles, heaps of biology books, dirty clothes carelessly strewn around. There's a dead frog nailed to the far left wall and some questionable-looking equipment pushed haphazardly beneath the coffee table, which contains about a dozen of used mugs, a crumpled twenty pound bank note, a pair of scissors, a credit card, a big brown box and tiny white grains like snow or ashen-shaded minimized confetti scattered along it.

Sherlock wants to tell Mycroft to do whatever the hell he wants, he doesn't care as long as he gets out of here: furthermore, Mycroft would never tell Mummy anyway, Sherlock still remembers the incident from a couple years back, when Mycroft's not-so-subtle interest in one of the very male kitchen employees of the Holmes' household had taken a quite intriguing but not very unexpected direction: he knew it'd be good to keep _that _particular deduction off the deleting-list, because of all the blackmail-worthy opportunities it would later on provide him, and he mentally taps himself on the back considering the current situation. Planning on telling Mycroft just that he rises from the couch.

And promptly finds himself face-first into the floor. (Hand-made rug, Persian. How positively useless. Mummy probably sent it to him a while back, along with the rest of the stuff he never bothered unpacking. It reminds him too much of the house he grew up in: same old blank, impersonal but luxurious taste in decorations. He left that place for a reason, he doesn't need souvenirs.)

"Sherlock", Mycroft sighs, and Sherlock cringes at his tone: it hints that Sherlock has suddenly turned into something along the lines of a load of bricks - heavy, bothersome, futile. Or, he would cringe, if his face didn't feel so funny.

"No, listen to me", Mycroft snaps, "you haven't been attending your classes for two weeks and two days, you missed last weeks exam and you've been deliberately avoiding Mummy's phone calls. It was _you _who insisted on attending UNI, and yet you dare play around like this? Simultaneously, your bank statement tells me 822£ have magically disappeared during that time, which is a big leap from your usual expenses, and now I find you like this. Get yourself together, Sherlock, or I will personally have to resort to drastic measures."

"Really, like what?" Sherlock tries to retort in a drawling monotone. The rug tickles his dry lips. He can feel Mycroft kneeling next to him, reaching for Sherlock's cell phone thrown beneath the sofa before clicking away at it impatienty. Moments later, he puts the device on the table, frowning at the sight. Sherlock manages to sit up, back resting against said table, attempting to regain some dignity.

"Do you not think I have the number memorized?"

"I think you'll refrain from using it." Mycroft answers, and it sounds more like a statement than a suggestion, really. How very irksome.

He stands up to leave, Sherlock still a sweaty mess on the floor, burning up from inside. Anthea catches Mycroft's gaze and disappears without another word. Mycroft halts in the doorway, however, and turns enough to lock his gaze on Sherlock's dilated pupils.

"Don't be stupid, baby brother. You're far too clever for that."

The door clicks shut, and Sherlock smiles in spite of himself as he reaches back under the sofa only to find the small plastic bag, the remains of his stash, gone.

**oo2.**

"Oh, I'm! I'm so sorry. I'll just.. sorry again!"

Sherlock, even in this kind of haze, is kind of impressed with himself at how quickly he catches the rosy hue high on Molly's cheeks before she turns hurriedly: the luminous pink on her lips, a little more vibrant than before, and the slightly lighter skin just beneath her eyes say _freshly re-applied make-up, _fixed just before she came in to greet him, no doubt. Her left sleeve droops slightly, the hole tugged larger by her right hand unconsciously: nervous habit, not too old. Probably prominent ever since she got the job here at St. Barts, though: not used to wearing long-sleeved anything, not used to the power that comes with the coat - she feels too important, bigger than she is, uncomfortable in the proof of her work. Dull.

He registers all of this just as she turns to leave him, obviously embarrassed by seeing him like this; flushed and loose-limbed. She half-surprises him, though, he'll give her that, when she turns back around, biting her lip.

"Sorry if I'm being nosy, but.. are you okay? Because you.." she trails off, looking at her feet. "never mind, I'm being rude, aren't I? It's not any of my business, I guess. I mean, of course it's not. I just." she looks straight up then, catches his blurry gaze. "you don't look fine. You haven't, actually, not for the entire week, I.. I can tell."

He smiles. Or, at least he tries to. Sherlock feels pliant and soft and detached, and not really in control of his own body, more like an on-looker. Oh, yes, of course, he can see himself now, that's definitely a smile. Loop-sided and uncharacteristic, but still. It startles her.

"Do you want to.. you know, talk?" she squeaks, daring a few steps closer while looking like all she really wants to do is turn away screaming bloody murder.

"Do you think you'd provide any interesting conversation?" he shoots back, dead-pan, voice collected despite his head being up and _everywhere, _despite his tongue growing big and sweet like cotton in the back of his mouth.

"Oh! Well, I. I just thought."

"Wrong", Sherlock interrupts, and he hasn't stopped smiling. He can't. He can see her organs, what runs and thrums inside of Molly Hooper, veins criss-crossing and blood splashed warm and wet. How fitting. It's very esthetic. She's just like the corpses here in the morgue, neatly organized among rows of others and very, very dead. Except she moves. The thought is too entertaining. "You didn't. but you never really do, do you? Or at least that's what your father always says. He doesn't exactly mean it like an insult, as I'm sure you know, but it still _stings, _doesn't it, the disapproval? He's just cold like that in some ways, and yet you hate disappointing him - you hate it when he calls you while you're working, because it's just a painful reminder of how you dropped out of med school after three years. He never really got over that, though he doesn't treat your brother at all the way he does you. Your brother's.. younger. Ah, of course, to have a girl as a first-born must have been slightly disappointing for such a strict traditionalist. And you're so airy, too. And then you chose this profession, slightly lower status than a doctor, yes, but definitely the better fit for you so well done there - you enjoy it, too, don't you? At least the corpses don't talk back to you, they do not show dis-"

"Enough!" Molly interrupts, voice broken. "that's.. I won't pry anymore. Just, leave it. It's enough. Don't set off the fire alarm, either." all the while she keeps her head down, long fringe brushing over big doe-eyes, and then she abruptly spins around and out, the profound bang of the door echoing in the small lab.

Sherlock flicks the elegant line of his wrist and watches the smoke slowly taper off. He doesn't move for a long time.

**oo3.**

"Dear heavens!"

The exclamation only registers as an afterthought to the loud crash of porcelain (correction: stoneware, rich in kaolinite, although Mrs Hudson probably can't tell the difference. A gift. A tasteless one, at that) against concrete. The sound is sharp in his ears and it coerces tremors, wrecking his numb body. It startles him into dropping a handful of small colorful pills.

One does not have to be a consulting detective to deduce her surprise. They have not known each other for long, and yet she comes over sometimes, like just now, with a home-cooked meal or some clothes of her husband's she doesn't want to dispose of. There's a definite pattern that ties her visits together, never a specific day but always after she's been to the garden club nearby, indicated by her casual attire, the distinguishable smell and the specks of soil on her tennis shoes. He knows she can show up, especially on Sundays, those are rather uneventful days - he just doesn't bother doing anything about it, he's incorrigible like that, and if he feels a pang of shame he brushes it off instantly.

(It doesn't even make sense. He doesn't particularly even _like _this old lady, but she's not an imbecile and so he doesn't dislike her either. She's nothing like his mother, that's for sure, yet he unconsciously directs respect at her - she has faults, though, and they're probably in that caring, doting side of her. She cares too _much_. She cares constantly, seeing the good in the most rotten of people (her borderline-psychopathic husband is a splendid example). Hell, she cares about_ Sherlock _and she barely even knows him at all, constantly worrying about his choice of attire or that "bunk of yours you call flat, as soon as one of my tenants move out you should come live there, I'll even cut down the rent for you.")

She is genuinely nice, but definitely not naive, and so he doesn't bother trying to make any excuses up. It is what it is.

He's accepted that, so he sees no reason why she shouldn't.

"Oh, Sherlock", she murmurs, "I had no idea."

He's tired. He's very, irritatingly, helplessly tired. Must be all of the dizziness. His mind is all razor-blades and fog around the edges, the lights in the claustrophobic room are so very close and so very vivacious and everything inanimate seems to kind of shift in shape, losing its form and lolling about sleepily. Mrs Hudson is the same: a blob of unripe green and depressive burgundy (horrible match), her hair light like chiffon.

Sherlock tries to speak, but his throat feels like up-turned sandpaper (interesting. Perhaps that particular effect can be of use some other time, preferably on Anderson) and his right hand hasn't stopped shaking yet, although it is hard to tell with it curled into a fist like this.

"Dear, come now, up you go", Mrs Hudson says, her voice concrete like something bright that spirals through the air and Sherlock realizes just now that he's been curled up on the floor. "We need to get some nutrition in you, hm? Go shower while I heat this up for you, come, off you go then."

Sherlock obeys, albeit with some difficulty: his limbs seem overgrown, awkward in their skin. He mostly does it because her presence takes up such a huge amount of space in the vastness he found, and when he steps into the shower, still fully clothed, he doesn't even flinch at the crisply cold water.

He lets his head sway forward, resting against the tiles, counting the quakes passing across his back.

**oo4.**

"Fuck, what a mess."

Sherlock inwardly agrees; but inwardly, there's just so much more than simple acknowledgement for Lestrade's description - there's all kinds of things, bouncing and sky-rocketing and _searing _and drawn together, held by see-through strings, and doesn't Lestrade _see? _Can't they all _see?_

This is so much better than any mind palace - it's perfectly logical, too, that's what Sherlock loves about it. And the fact that he doesn't have to create anything himself, no carefully decorated rooms filled to the brim with tidily organized piles of information in the cautiously stuffed space of his mind. This here? It just comes to him, by itself, created in a boom and a bit better every time - and it's never_ boring, _quite the opposite_._

Except for.. ah. Except for, when Lestrade's looking at him like _that._

"Sherlock, for god's.. is this why you haven't come down to the station these days? You've been.. what, locking yourself in here for god knows how long? Fuck, man, when did you last _eat_? Well, _look _at you!"

Sherlock tries, he really does, but he barely has the energy to keep his head up and focused on the other man. His skin's too hot beneath the tight shirt and his arms weigh a ton, so he doesn't see why Lestrade is the frustrated one. The Detective Inspector huffs loudly, muttering about deductions sent by text and how he should've figured it out earlier despite Donovan's objections (as if Donovan is usually someone trustworthy, especially when it comes to something as tedious and pitiful as her _opinions_).

Suddenly, there's hands on the square of his shoulders ("I dislike defining this as bloody babysitting as much as you, all right?") confirming Sherlocks' earlier suspicions of Lestrade's time working as a craftsman (probably specializing in carving and furniture, but he'd have to take a better look at those calluses embedded in the man's palm to be sure) and he can feel himself being hauled towards the bed.

Lestrade watches him for a moment, determined but a bit lost, and Sherlock thinks he ought to spare them this awkwardness, they're barely even acquaintances when you think about it, it's only ever been strictly business between the two - Sherlock prefers it that way, _demands _it that way, and he's not sure if his guard's slipping or if he just can't be bothered with what anyone thinks anymore (even less so than usually, that is, his little habit's tendency to generally be socially frowned upon aside) because this is _heaven._

Mostly. When it's not an approaching bad omen in the form of a churn in the pit of his stomach.

"Are you going to be sick?" Lestrade asks, and then dashes out. He's going to have a sore lower back in the morning after all of this (Sherlock estimated the man's compressed lumbar disks as a result from a tennis injury during one of their earlier meetings, and he knows it acts up sometimes). Sherlock fights to bring an arm up so he can put it across his eyes; light's too strong. In the end, to his great mortification, he merely ends up fidgeting around a bit.

The lamp by the desk is turned off, and Sherlock actually considers the possibility of brain control when he notices Lestrade's back, clutching a glass of water and something unidentifiable (distinct smell of plastic) which he pushes against the foot of the bed.

"Bowl", the man says, takes the glass back after Sherlock's heartily gulped its contents down, and then he says nothing. His breathing pattern doesn't cease, though, rhythmical in the dead of the night (morning. 5am means morning. Probably).

When Sherlock wakes up it's not in an unusual fashion: his skin is prickling, head pounding and as bile rises to his throat he heaves himself to the side, preparing for the inevitable.

He notices the bowl, thinks, _oh that's right_. The needle's still on the floor where he left it last night and there's no way Lestrade missed it. He's probably to expect a drug bust sometime soon. There's a re-filled glass of water by his bedside table.

Sweat breaks out across his forehead, and he surges towards the bowl, secretly wishing he could empty his entire being out along with the vomit forcing itself up his throat.

**oo5.**

"Right, so - eggs, milk, and.. carbonate? Sherlock, what even, do you think that's for actual sale in Tesco? Just.. what are you doing, Sherlock?"

"Hm? Oh, nothing. And no, John, but that is exactly why you are my best man; see, i know you'll find a way to bring it to me, creative as you are."

"Hold on, are you _sucking up _to me?"

"I think the general term is _complementing, _John, and i hear you're not supposed to get bashful or defensive about it, just accept it as it is."

"Oh my god. You are actually sucking up to me so I'll provide you with.. experiment material. That's.. yeah. Since when do you care about general terms anyway?"

"Not the point. is it working?"

"What, the sucking up?"

"_Complimenting._"

John tries to keep a straight face, but it's impossible - Sherlock's seen it a hundred times before, that amazingly expressive twist of facial expressions bleeding into each other, but it's never not fascinating.

"Yeah. Yes, it is", the doctor laughs, low and pleasant, and Sherlock offers a small smile in return.

John brushes past him, squeezing his shoulder on his way out - or rather, the junction between shoulder and collarbone, supplying an entirely gratifying warmth to spread across said area in tiny explosions, reaching beneath the material of his shirt.

(Ridiculous. Accurate.)

He watches the man leave with a wave of the hand and a "cheers!", and Sherlock stares only a tad longer than necessary at the space where John isn't anymore, finger pressed against lower lip. He turns to pick up the paper bag he was filling moments ago, closes it at the top. There's a barely-there beat when he stands, stiff and considering in the glow of the afternoon-sun. Then, he promptly walks down the stairs to place the bag in the trash can outside.

John meets him halfway, breath caught deliciously against his lips and irises momentarily widening.

"Forgot my wallet", he helpfully explains, gaze wavering a bit before he rushes past Sherlock. Only to stop immediately, clutching at his left elbow.

"Ow! What.. Sherlock, is that a bloody _needle_?"

Sherlock's eyes unnecessarily flicker downwards to see the small, sharp tip poking through the paper bag.

"Didn't notice it had broken through."

"That's actually dangerous! Never mind that, are you seriously taking out the trash? I should take a picture, probably, keep it as my screen saver-"

And Sherlock smiles in spite of himself because the stash, untouched for five months now, along with all of the factual evidence of the person he was and isn't anymore; approximately forty-eight seconds away from being gone.

(John's still talking, half-smile and steady pulse, concrete and not-boring.)

**A/N; **I wrote this on an impulse more than anything. fFrst time finishing something of the Sherlock BBC fandom, I had fun. The show is great, and Sherlock/John kind of completes my life. I should probably mention that each short story features one specific kind of drug, 'cause I can imagine Sherlock being all like, "I shall have to examine each in order to appraise their circumstantial effect on the human body" or something like that. Can you guess which ones? It probably isn't that hard. Don't do drugs, kids! I wish I'd perhaps spent some more time on this fic, since there's probably improvisations to make, but oh well. I'm always too eager to finish something I start in case I tire of it quickly. I hope you all enjoy!


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